What you think truth is?
Half-smart writers produce articles and
popular books, but what they know?
In their eyes I don’t feel any poetry.
It’s just blank, fame, or something—no weakness
no genius, no sincerity only a kind of death—
What if today, was the strangest day of
your life, but all the others were exactly the same—
as if the strangeness was well contained,
and none of it spilled out like
emotion is apt to do.
When I was younger I’d play chess
all day long, even when I was supposed to
study; chess is like life, unless you
try to get better, you can play all you want
but you won’t become better—time catches
up with me
If you could live a billion years would
you get insanely bored? Maybe there’s
too much experience there and the human
body is too small, like pumping a whole
power plant’s electricity into one meager
wire: blows out—riches can’t by you a new
My girlfriend’s sister accused me of
being proud of my writing, for trying to show
it to people—I told her it was just my way of
saying hello, being absolutely alone in my
soul for so long, I want to leave the
light on for the strange
So much piles on, it piles on like
music and songs played right on top
of each other, and soon you lose track
and can’t hold on anymore: what if my body
disintegrated right now—what if it blew away
into dust: then I’d be a real poet.